


One of Them

by Romany



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Angst, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-12-01
Updated: 2003-12-01
Packaged: 2018-02-03 20:50:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1756715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Romany/pseuds/Romany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes Spike has a bad night and vampires have needs...</p>
            </blockquote>





	One of Them

Nights, Spike cruises the Bronze, Willy’s, other establishments. Because sometimes it’s not a fight he’s hankering for. Or maybe he’s already got a good pounding in and a man needs some release after all that. Gets the blood going. So he finds them. Boy. Girl. Demon, if they’re good-looking enough. Don’t matter none, a hole’s a hole. Grins as he works his way in. Can’t eat’em so might as well fuck’em. Gets all tingly when he hears, “Oh God...please...” Lords it over. “You want it? Huh, you like it, you nasty little fuck? Come on, tell me what a slut you are...” His cock in his hand, out of their reach. And they do. Beg, humiliate themselves, just so he’ll thrust into them, just so they can touch him. He does’em all but he likes the back-alley boys and co-ed whores the best. There’s just something about getting for free what others pay for. “You want it?” “Oh God...yes...please...” 

So then they writhe underneath as he prods open a mouth, a quim, an arse. Their hands grasping, eyes open. And sometimes in those eyes he sees a yearning, something he recognizes. It’s a bit of alright then. Then he says softly, “Yes, love, got you.” His hand reaches out to them, gentle, a caress. But it doesn’t last. Can’t. Broken. Gone in mid-fuck. So then he growls and thrusts harder. Just gets the shit over with. And it’s never their name that he mutters as he comes. Names? Why bother? Crap, all of it.

Over. So then it’s a quick zip, a ta and a sneer. He leaves them crumpled wherever he put them: bathroom, alley, doorway. Walks away, savoring the fag that comes after more.

And so what if his hand snakes under his shirt as he stumbles back into his crypt pissed and half-starved? So what if his other hand wriggles loose his jeans as he kicks off his Docs? So what if he’s hard again as he tumbles down the stairs and into his bed, duster wafting around him? A bloke can pull himself if he wants to. No shame in it. Just gets the edge off, makes it easier to sleep.

But that’s when the names come back to him. The names he mutters when he comes in those nameless holes. The names he tries to drain out of himself, pour into someone else.

Drusilla. Princess. Why’d you leave me? He can still feel her french-manicured nails, the ones he polished, piercing him, as he hovers over her. Always take care of you. Always. Know what you need, my sweet. Oh yes...He thumbs the slit of his cock, eyes half closed.

Darla. Right bitch that she was, she could be a hell of a ride when she wanted to be. He can see her slamming herself onto him, grinding. “Make it good, pretty boy...earn your keep.” And he did. Learned how to please. How to make that throaty laugh rise out of her. “Hmmm...nice...you’ll do,.” she whispers as she sinks, melts, on top of him, briefly sated. Remembering, his hand curls and uncurls around himself like the walls of a woman.

Angelus. Sire, oh sire, please. “Whose are ye, boy?” He can feel the brick against his cheek as Angelus tears into him, unrelenting. Don’t want to like it...don’t want...But he does. Stops squirming. No, just squirms differently. Oh, oh. So full. So full. “Yours, sire. Your boy, always your boy.” Spike kicks his jeans all the way off. Turns on his side so his fingers can find that place. Deep, uncomfortable. Tries to find it. Tries to feel full again.

And he should come now, damn it. Should. Just. Bloody. Come. Now. As he jabs his cock into his fist and thrusts back on his fingers. Got a rhythm going. But he’s almost fucked out for the night and he’s going to last. Can’t help it. Can’t help missing his family. It’s not right for a vampire to be alone. It’s not right. It’s not natural. It’s okay if he misses them. So if he comes now, nobody’ll blame him. But he can’t. Can’t come. Can’t stop. And he knows the rest of it...been here before...shit...don’t want to...the other names...don’t...just don’t...please...

Angel. No longer memory but fantasy now...Don’t matter...wants it just the same...Angel shoves open the crypt door, storms down the stairs. “What do you think you’re doing, Spike?” This. Something else. Spike’s done something. Always fucks up. Angel’s looming over him not a hair out of place, hands on his hips. Righteous. Indignant. Condemning. So if the Brood Master wants repentance, that’s what he’ll get. Spike kneels down before an Angel shocked into immobility, wrenches open his trousers and goes to Church. Jerks himself as he does it because an Angelus by any other name tastes as sweet. Pride? What the frigging hell is that? Who cares as long as he has Angel’s cock in the back of his throat? Who cares as long as Angel grabs Spike’s hair so he can fuck his mouth?. “God, boy, missed this...” The mind forgets but the body remembers. Bet he’d still thrust a little to the left so Spike could lick that vein...bet he’d still throw back his head and roar as he comes. Soul or no, bet he’d still do that. Spike would do it. Swallow his pride while swallowing Angel. Just so he could feel those thighs shudder around his hands. Just so he could hear him say, “Come on Spike, get yourself cleaned up. Getting you out of this stinkhole, taking you home.”

But Spike knows it’s all fantasy. He screws his eyes shut so he can see it, feel it in the palm of his hand. But Angel’s never coming for him. Spike’s somebody else’s problem as he lies here half-rotting. Angel’s in L.A. feeling guilty about everyone else but Spike. He’s forgotten. Not even worth a thought. Not even worth a beating. 

He remembers when Angelus figured out how to finally hurt him. Beatings, rape, none of it worked. Angelus would growl in frustration because Spike could take it. Whip, fist, cock. Didn’t matter. Spike could take it and come up laughing. The inn at Antwerp, it was. They’d killed everyone, feasted just hours before. But Spike got cocky. Took on too much of the kitchen staff at once. Didn’t see that wooden spoon heading for Darla’s back. But Angelus caught it, snarled, broke a few necks. “Ye’ll be the dust of us yet, boy!” Afterwards, he hurled him outside into the dirt. “We’re done! Out wit’ ye! Sleep wit’ the dogs! Ye’re not even worth the beatin’.” Spike, desperate, crawled forward, eyes pleading. Tried to undo Angelus’ trousers. Out in the open. In front of the women. He didn’t care. Please, sire, just let me...Angelus laughed, “Yer mouth’s not that pretty, boy!” as he kicked him in the teeth. Three fangs arced out onto the ground. He swallowed another one. He scrambled to pick them up, maybe put them back in, as the door latched. Locking him out.

He sat in the dirt for hours. Waiting, hoping Dru would sneak down and let him back in. But he could hear her and Darla moan, rising and falling, to the tenor of Angelus’ groans, and he knew no one would come for him. Just before dawn, he snuck into the tool shed. Slept some. Upon waking, he found an old pair of iron pliers, gripped it on one of his remaining teeth and pulled. Pulled all of them, one by one.

Nightfall, he greeted them as they left for the hunt. Grinning. Toothless. Bleeding. Angelus, an arm around Darla, an arm around Drusilla, gaped, “Mary in Hell! What possessed ye to do that, boy?”

Later that night, Angelus would scream, “Damnation! Love the way yer mind works...” as Spike showed him what a mouth without teeth could do. There would be quite a few corpses spinning in fury over him putting _that_ idea into Angelus’ head. Didn’t matter. Spike was in his Sire’s arms, tasting the rare pleasure of himself in Angelus’ mouth as they kissed. “How were ye goin’ to feed? Did ye think of that, Will?” he said as he pulled Spike closer. He gazed at him in wonder, awestruck, the gaslight making him shimmer. “Yer a bloody marvel, ye are, me boy. A bloody marvel. I’ll feed ye till they grow back again. Always take care of ye, Will. Always.” And then, oh yes, then, “Mmmmm...love ye, boy,” as Angelus drifted off to sleep.

But now as hard as he’d try, Spike wasn’t always worth the beating. “Off wit’ ye!” Toss him out. Oslo. Turin. Moscow...always the same. They would leave, he would follow. Ignored for nights at a time. And then those broad shoulders would stop, Angelus would turn, “So are ye coming along then?” A smile. An arm. A small kiss. Oh yes...so wonderful to be forgiven. Good times, yeah?

Spike almost comes with that one. Usually works. Angel, Angelus...all one really. No matter what the poof says. One of these days, Angel will turn, smile, “So are you coming along then?” He will be forgiven. It’s one of the things that keeps him going. That hope. That shame. When things are bad. “Please, Angel...oh, please.” It’s not right for a vampire to be alone. It’s not natural.

But the others...he’s pumping hard now. If he were human, he’d be bleeding. Chafes though... pain... pleasure... something. Oh the others...it could be any of them, really, any one of them. Can’t stand the lot. No, really, he can’t. Don’t mean he don’t want’em none.

Buffy. Oh, she wants him...he can smell it. Drives him to distraction, it does. He taunts her and hates her and wants her. Sometimes he’s worth the beating...fuck....yeah...fight and fuck...oh and can’t leave her toy soldier out of it either...Teach him to put something where it’s not wanted. A suck and a fuck would do him. Hold him against the wall and drain him half-dry while he fucked him all-dry...oh yeah, ‘d hurt like hell, boy, just like it does every time Spike tries to EAT! But there’s something in the boy that doesn’t hate Spike quite enough, that gets just a little lost when he threatens to stake him, that’s just a little bit empty...and yeah, hurt him, tear him up maybe, but...been there himself...Maybe he’d hit that spot. Make him feel full. “Whose are you?” “Yours...” Yeah, Finn just needed a firm hand is all. Spike would be the one to guide him. And why does that make him stroke just that much faster?

Willow. Red. She’s the closest to saying, “Are you coming along then?” But she’s too busy with her spells and her other witch, Tara, to notice him much. He can see himself as their anchor...Don’t have much use for magic, but he knows about anchoring. Can see himself lying there as they waft around him all fingers and tongues and chants. His body a force, a power, a hold...deep with pathways and turnings...his body a rod, a staff, to comfort as well as cleave. He can show them...aaaah...yes...root to fucking tip...

Xander. That mouth. That filthy, insulting, smart-arse mouth. Show you what to do with that mouth, boy. Oh yes...and then ol’ Spike would show him no hard feelings. Just returning the favor, mind. He’d be more’n enough for him and his demon girl, Anya. More’n enough. Oh God...watch those brown eyes melt as he enters him while he fingers her...show him how good it could be...shit...almost there...He wouldn’t hurt him. Much. Spike would have his own boy, finally, he would...

Giles. Yeah, old Rupes got a bit of Angelus he calls Ripper when he loses it. Spike likes to make him lose it a lot. Not much if he’s not annoying, yeah? Sends a thrill down him when Giles yells...wouldn’t mind tasting a bit of that...could get him drunk, yeah...could happen...

These are the names that he shouts in the dark. That he pours into others. That always come back to him. All fantasy and shame and clenched teeth and sore cock and sore arse. All of it. Because they won’t look at him. Won’t tell him to come along no matter how hard he follows. And it’s not right to want them. It’s not natural for a vampire to play with his food. But he’s not playing. He’s not. He hates them. He loves them. He doesn’t know the difference any more.

Could be any one of them. Christ, what does it take? Can’t they see that he’s empty? That they can pour themselves into him and he can take it? Take them all? Make it fit. Make it work. Always. What is he if not flexible?

Could be any one of them. Any one of them could come down here and say, “Spike, are you okay?” And that’s all it would take. Then he’d take them softly to the bed. Show them a vampire isn’t all hard angles and edges. Show them that he’s fingers and a tongue just like they are. Knows all the spots. Knows’em all. Wouldn’t even touch himself while he did it. Let himself stay hard and untended. Just bring’em off again. And again. And again. Until they felt like they could wash out to sea. Look at their faces. Kiss them. Stroke them. Hold them. Could be any one of them...

And then he’d kill them. Watch their faces shift from sleepy satisfaction to betrayal...oh yeah...he’s really got a rhythm going now...uhhh...tear out their throats while their blood was still sweet with orgasm...so sweet...can taste it...can just fucking taste it...

But then they’d be just another body. Just another body like the ones he finds every night. The ones he fucks and throws away. A corpse. Unreachable. Over. Done. Don’t want that.

Nothing for it but to gnash open his wrist and force it to their cooling mouth... yeah... turn’em...yeah...could be any one of them...could be all of them...hot little vamps, all of ‘em. Wouldn’t even need a bed then. No room. Floor would do. Just be all fingers, tongues, quim, cock, holes...all wanting him...all needing him...Master Spike...Buffy, Riley, Willow, Tara, Xander, Anya, Rupert...oh yeah...fuck you...fuck you...fuck me....it’s there.... shit.... coming.... coming.... fuck...YEAH!

A shudder. An unnecessary breath. Spike curls into himself, pants-less, come in his hand, fingers trailing from his arse, and falls asleep.

Inside, he lies spent, exhausted, a dead man. Outside, the unforgiving fist called the sun is rising.


End file.
